


My Little Heart

by Inori



Category: The Pianist (2002)
Genre: M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4542123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inori/pseuds/Inori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No miracle would happen, except in dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Little Heart

“So you don’t know his name.” The Soviet officer looked at him indifferently, there was clear doubt in his voice as he spoke, “Can you provide anything else to identify him? Like his rank or unit designation?”  
“No, I don’t think I can.” Helplessly he replied.   
The officer coughed to hide his sardonic grin, and said, “Well, in that case there is little I can help. I’m sorry, Mister…?”  
“Szpilman. Wladyslaw Szpilman.”

Szpilman sighed in disappointment and left the office. It wasn’t the first time that he got refused, and it wouldn’t be the last. For the last 5 years he had been looking for the German captain, still couldn’t he get anything other than disappointment. The only thing he knew for sure was that the captain was captured and later sent to a working camp in Soviet. He was wounded and he needed Szpilman’s help. Back in war he had risked his career and even his life saving Szpilman’s, now it was time to return that kindness.  
However, Szpilman knew so little about him. He hadn’t asked his name when they departed, so that nothing would come out of his mouth if he was caught and tortured, no charge would be put on the captain for disobeying orders and helping a Jew. Never had he thought that small gratitude would turn out to be such a tragedy, when the captain needed help, he couldn’t even provide a name for the camp governors to look for.  
It had been five years since he got the message from his friend Majorek, who had encountered the officer on his releasing day near a military factory by accident. They had dug up all information sources they could reach, begged the bastard that he detested so much just for the slightest piece of information. From Poland to Soviet they went, yet no miracle ever happened.  
Majorek went back from a nearby factory, with a strange look on his face. Szpilman held his breath and waited anxiously. His friend gazed at him for a while, and then he sighed, leading him back to the factory.  
“I found an officer who worked at a prisoner-of-war camp in Stalingrad last year, he got something for you.”

Days later, Szpilman returned home with a very special guest.  
Thanks to the clue provided by the former officer of the prisoner-of-war camp in Stalingrad, he finally found the captain. Years of heavy work and poor treatment had curved their force on him eternally. He was like a ghost escaped from hell, so pale and fragile that Szpilman could hardly recognize him at first. But above all he was still alive. It would be too greedy to ask for more.   
Szpilman didn’t quite know how he ended up bringing the captain back home, rather than helping him return to Germany. It seemed the only right decision then; and the captain didn’t say anything in protest. So there he was, in the guestroom of Szpilzman’s house, living with him in the foreseeable future. Szpilman had been living alone since the war ended; however, sharing his private space with another man didn’t cause any uncomfortableness. Everything felt so right and so natural, as if they had known each other for years, rather than just several days in a half destroyed building, with German and Russian artilleries firing thunderously outside.  
The captain hadn’t spoken of his days in the prisoners-of-war camp, but somehow Szpilman could figure out from all the details that it was anything but good. Judging from his own painful experiences, Szpilzman was aware that some torture and suffering could never be fully healed, so he was careful not to mention that topic, until the captain himself was ready and willing to talk to him.   
It was midnight, the door of guestroom opened and seconds later there were footsteps on the stairs. Szpilman knew too well what was happening to the captain. Back to the days of 1945, he himself used to be caught up by the nightmare that he was still hiding in that cold narrow loft. The captain moved quietly downstairs, minutes later no noise could be heard. Szpilman lay still and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, he knew the captain needed some privacy to deal with his own nightmare, but something deep inside kept urging him to get up and take a look. Therefore he sat up and followed the man downstairs. The captain was in the living room, sitting in the sofa facing the piano, and emotionlessly gazing at it like a lifeless statue. Szpilman quietly approached, studied him for a moment and then asked in soft voice, “Are you alright?”  
The captain raised his head on hearing Szpilman’s voice. There was deep shadow under his eyes; obviously those nightmares bothered him a great deal. The captain didn’t answer him immediately. There was empty expression on his face, as if he didn’t understand the question. In patience Szpilman waited, putting a hand on his shoulders in comfort and support. The shoulders under the thin pajama cloth were as cold as ice, so he grabbed a blanket for him to keep him warm. It was early September, and the weather outside was mild and humid. It was strange that the captain would feel cold, but for someone who had been working in Soviet prisoner-of-war camp for the last five years, it would be hard to get away from those fatal cold that had been rooted deep in the bones.  
“Could you – could you please play something for me?” After a long silence he finally broke the silence and asked, with a hoarse voice, “Anything would be fine.”   
“Yes of course.”  
Szpilman sat down in front of the piano and placed his hands on the keyboard. He thought for a while what he should play, but the answer seemed too clear to be bothered. So he started, just like that day the first met, playing the Nocturne in C-sharp minor of Chopin.  
He could still remember every detail of the day they met. After a seemingly lifetime under close threat of death, he had already forgotten the normal life he used to own before war. But the captain, after hearing that he was a pianist, invited him to play. He felt he was given a second life when he touched the keyboards, even if that one was no match for the one he used to play at, and was covered with a thick layer of dust. So he played, first with shaking hands and stumble rhythms; and then, like the sparkle of life was ignited inside him again, he played more fluently and enthusiastically. As he continued he almost forgot the situation around, forgot about all the torture, cold and starving he suffered, he could recall his old days in Warsaw radio station now, the life full of hope and pleasure. They were so vivid and so beautiful that he almost burst into tears for everything and everyone that had been rubbed from him.  
The captain stood quietly against the door, listened to the song and gazed at him with respect. Szpilman knew from his eyes that he was not looking at a miserable refugee who was begging for his life, but a noble man, a respectable artist. When Szpilman finished he didn’t make any comments. He just asked Szpilman to show him the place he was hiding. Szpilman was thankful the captain had no intention to arrest him or report his existence to the SS, in such a tough situation he couldn’t ask for more. But the captain did more than Szpilman had expected. He showed up in the next morning and every morning that followed, providing fresh food and other necessities for him. Most importantly he gave Szpilman the hope of returning to normal live. Even though it was still too painful to think of a life after war, but from that day on, he truly hoped to live through all this.

“I do remember this.” After Szpilman finished playing, the captain recalled quietly, with a faint smile on his face, “You played it when we first met. It was the best Chopin I’ve ever heard.”  
Szpilman blushed a little for the warm and sincere compliment, and smiled humbly at him. “Well, Thank you. I hope you can remember this time, rather than the one I played with shaking hands on a piano that haven’t been adjusted for years.”  
The captain was amused by his little joke. He shook his head and smirked, “Well, to be honest, I still prefer the first time.”  
Szpilman raised his eyebrows and asked in curiosity, “Why?”  
“Because it was the only moment I felt alive during the entire war.” He closed his eyes and paused for a while, as if something deep inside was eating all his strength away, “it echoed in my head many times when I was in the camp.”  
It was too heavy a topic to be talked about, hence for a long time neither of them said anything. The moonlight flew quietly into the living room, covering everything with gentle silver. The trees whispered in low voice in the breeze, like lovers talking with affection to each other. 

“Do you remember the tin-opener you gave to me when I was in that loft?” Asked Szpilman quietly, with deep emotion buried under his calm tone, “It is still in my kitchen, in good condition. My friend Majorek hates the design of it; every time he drops in to my house he tries to throw it away without my notice, yet never did he succeed.”  
The captain smiled and replied, “If I knew you would keep it, I would have given you a better looking one. That one was too shabby to be a gift.”  
“It’s good enough for me, I like it.” He turned his head and looked at the reflection of his own on the piano, repeated in trembling voice, “I like it.”  
The captain didn’t reply. He studied Szpilman’s face carefully and respectfully, as if he was gazing the most precious thing in his life. For a second Szpilman thought desperately that if he could live forever in that gaze, he would not hesitate for a single second to trade with every property he had.  
He closed his eyes and paused for long to calm himself down. Then he looked at the face that had been carved into his mind since the very day they met. Unbearable heartache stroke him, he had to make deep breath in order not to burst into tears.

“I want to thank you, for all the things you’ve done to save my life, and sorry I can’t return the favor when you need me.”  
The captain stopped his apology and walked towards him. He leaned forward to look into Szpilman’s eyes closely. It was the first time they looked at each other in such a close distance, and it would be the last.  
“Don’t feel sorry, it’s alright. I thank God for letting us meet there; it’s the best thing I get in my entire life.”  
Then he tenderly put his hand on Szpilman’s. Under the silver moonlight his hand gradually turned transparent, like dewdrops evaporating in the sun.  
“Thank you for all the efforts you’ve taken to release me, my friend, now it’s time to let it go.”

Szpilsman woke up alone in dawn, bathed in the pale light. He didn’t realize he was weeping in a dream. The inevitable sorrow overwhelmed him, like a tsunami destroying the coast. 

Dreams were always just dreams; there was no miracle in real life. The German captain, Wilm Hosenfeld was the name he finally knew, died in a prisoners-of-war camp in freezing cold Stalingrad before Szpilman could reach him. From now on, except in dreams, never in the rest of his life would Szpilman see him again, nor could he say any of the words that had been buried deep in his heart for long.

The sun rose and the birds sang, a brand new day just began. Someone was playing an old song under his window, with a vivid rhythm, and sad lyrics.

If you ask the question you will get my answer,  
Yes, I belong to you.  
Yes, I only belong to you.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song “mein kleines Herz”, of TV show Unsere Muetter, Unsere Vaetter.  
> In fact I only watched the show once (I’m too touched to watch a second time), but this song keeps looping in my head when I started writing. It’s a lovely song, yet a sad one considering most soldiers never managed to come home, to their beloved ones.  
> No matter how it was claimed, wars have nothing to do with glory or pride. They are all cruel, bloody and inhumane.


End file.
